Winding Roads
by Rogue Vader
Summary: JATE. AU. A multi-chapter story about the various times Jack and Kate meet. Chapter 2 is up. Jack and Kate meet again in L.A.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Lost does not belong to me. I've just taken Jack and Kate out to play and will be sure to get them home before dark.

**A/N:** I've been bitten by the AU bug. For those who read my last story, this one is based around the same concept – how Jack and Kate might meet in another time and place. This fic will cover several meetings between Jack and Kate. This first chapter will most likely be much longer than the others because it sets the foundation. I want to warn potential readers right now that this story will rely on coincidence and contrivance. If those turn you off then make sure you proceed with caution! I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors.

**A/N II: **If the first two chapters seem really familiar to some of you, it's because you've probably already read them. Those chapters** were** posted previously but I removed them a while back due to some reworking.

**Winding Roads – Chapter 1**

_**October 4**__**th**__**, 2002**_

You don't see the hole until it is too late. To be honest, you don't actually see the hole at all because Patsy Cline is playing on your Walkman and you're too busy singing on an imaginary stage to notice anything but your screaming fans. But the hole doesn't care that you're oblivious because suddenly the world tilts and you're on the ground, your face smacking hard against unforgiving asphalt.

The first thing you notice, after you blink your eyes twice in confusion, is the wet. Pools of rain, left behind by last night's storm, seep through your long-sleeved t-shirt and soak your skin. It is cold and uncomfortable but you don't get up because the next thing you notice is the pain. It starts in your ankle and shoots its way up your leg, sharp and unrelenting. You roll onto your back, your eyes clenched tight, and release a pathetic, pain-filled whimper. A groan of frustration follows almost immediately.

Some fractional part of your mind, the part still capable of objective thought, is dimly aware that you've become a public spectacle. In about fifteen minutes your entire body will burn with embarrassment. But that part of you is insignificant, its concerns held hostage by the far larger part of you that is writhing in pain and doesn't give a good damn who will see you out here.

Hesitantly you lower your hand and let your fingers trace along the contours of your ankle, checking for signs of outward damage. You half expect to find your foot facing in the wrong direction, or maybe detached from your body altogether. But after a shaky examination, everything appears to be in the right place. You breathe a grateful sigh before dropping a few well-chosen curses for good measure. Because you're in pain and copious use of expletives might make you feel better, and because some situations simply demand foul language.

"Are you all right?"

Before you can register that someone is speaking to you – acting as a witness to your shame – a firm hand grips your shoulder. Startled, your eyes pop open in surprise just as your mouth snaps shut. You look up to see a man crouching beside you, his head is bent toward yours and his dark eyes are studying you with a steady concern. He is dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, far too light for the weather, and a ring of sweat circles his collar. His chest heaves with each breath and he is so close the fine wisps of hair at your temples flutter with each exhalation.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He drops the hand from your shoulder and sits back, retreating from your personal space. "Can you sit up?"

You nod awkwardly and struggle to a sitting position, acutely aware of how silly you must look. The stranger, sensing your need for assistance, puts an arm behind your shoulders and guides you to a sitting position. The whole time you can feel him watching you carefully, like he is afraid you might pitch over. Maybe finish whatever damage you were attempting to inflict upon yourself before he found you. Briefly you wonder how many people bite it this badly in public parks. You hope it's more than ten.

"Thank you." You smile sheepishly around the pain and gesture self-consciously. "I'm a bit of a klutz." Which isn't exactly the truth – or anywhere near it, really – but all feelings of embarrassment have made their appearance and you don't know what else to say. Mostly you just wish you'd managed to fall flat on your face somewhere with a little more privacy.

At your feet the nameless Good Samaritan settles on his haunches and motions for you to straighten your wounded leg. You want to protest, to tell him you're grateful for his help but this really isn't necessary and he should just go on his way because you'll be fine. But you don't open your mouth because you know, instinctively, that he won't listen. In the two minutes since he asked if you were okay you can already tell – by his precise actions and efficient, professional tone – that he is a man who gets things done.

So, with a grimace, you lift your foot and start to slide your leg forward. The man notices your discomfort and reaches for your foot, gently supporting your heel in long-fingered hands as he settles it on the ground.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" He's still winded, just a little, and his voice is a bit breathless when he speaks. You notice a single drop of sweat roll down the sharp ridge of his nose and dangle from the tip. He wipes at it impatiently, his eyes unwavering on yours.

"I bounced it a little. But it didn't take the brunt of the impact. I landed on these." You smile and hold up hands with angry, red scrapes along the palms. "I think my ankle took the worst of it."

He nods. "When you rolled it, do you remember if it went to the inside or the outside?"

"It definitely rolled out." A shudder runs through you at the memory and the skin along your arms and neck prickles. You've seen enough replays of ankle injuries on ESPN to know what your foot must have looked like and it makes you faintly sick. Silently you vow never to run on anything but a treadmill, where the surface is always flat and no holes lie in wait to contort your body in unnatural ways.

"Did you hear or feel any popping?"

"I heard a crunch."

He nods again and you laugh without humor, marveling at the absurdity of it all. All you did this morning is wake up and decide to go for a jog, run maybe a mile. Nothing more complicated than that, no climbing hills, no wind sprints or other extreme exercise. Just a jog and now you sit wounded in a public park, your clothes soaking wet, and being quizzed about your ankle by a man whose name you don't even know.

"Do you mind if I take a look at your ankle?" He looks up at you, eyebrows raised.

You tilt your head to one side and smile, amused that he is hesitating and asking your permission to do something _now_.

"I'm a doctor," he blurts out, misreading your silence. "I probably should have said that right away."

It's funny. You're not exactly sure why, but it is and so you let yourself laugh. He stares at you for a heartbeat before a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It's a quiet smile, self-awareness and embarrassment commingled into something vaguely sweet. It's the first smile he's given you and - you don't know how you didn't see it before - it makes you realize how handsome he is. Definitely handsome enough to make you wish you'd met him somewhere else under more flattering circumstances.

But that's not how your luck usually works, anyway.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I get carried away when I'm in the zone."

"That's okay." You dip your chin toward your foot, still smiling. "Go ahead, you can't do it any harm."

"I'm Jack, by the way." He introduces himself while once again lifting your foot from the ground. With slow, careful movements he braces it across his knee but you still jerk once in pain and surprise.

"Kate," you say when your breath returns. His eyes flick to yours, clouded for a split second by confusion because he's already forgotten the conversation. But then his eyes clear and he smiles at you again. "I'd say it's nice to meet you but..."

He chuckles and nods his head. "I understand. Now, this may hurt but I just want to make sure it's not broken."

With no more warning than that he taps his broad palm against the bottom of your heel. Pain shoots up your leg and you suck a quick, hissing breath through clenched teeth. Jack's mouth twists and he puts your foot back on the ground, like it's some fragile antique. Apparently more tests aren't necessary.

"I want you to get this x-rayed."

"You think it's broken?"

"I think it's worth checking out. I was hoping to save you a trip to the hospital but…" His words trail off and he shrugs apologetically. You nod, not at all surprised your day has come to this. It probably even serves you right. Imaginary concerts should only happen within the safe confines of your own home.

"Great." You drop your forehead into your hand and shake your head. It's almost amusing.

At your feet, Jack braces his hands against the ground to pushes himself to a standing position. Once vertical, he wipes his palms on his shorts, leaving streaks of grime on the navy mesh. Hands clean, he rests them on his hips and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, obviously wondering how best to deal with you.

The pain in your ankle is still there, but it's become more manageable so you don't offer any immediate solutions. Instead you try not to feel guilty – and hope you aren't obvious – as you use the moment as an excuse to stare boldly up at Jack's face and enjoy the view. With a possibly broken ankle, looming hospital bills, the threat of crutches, and all future inconveniences waiting to make your life miserable, you'll be damned if you don't allow yourself to appreciate the one scrap of good that has come from this.

"We're going to have to get you to an emergency room."

You want to laugh at his use of the word 'we' but manage to hide your amusement.

"I'll take a taxi." Your tone is as direct as his and he nods. You're almost sure he would offer to take you, that it was what he was thinking when he stared down at you mere seconds ago. But Good Samaritan or no, doctor or no, you'll only accept so much help.

Jack helps you to your feet and you think he starts to bend down, so he can lift you up and carry you, but you sling an arm around his shoulder and start forward with ginger steps, forcing him to walk with you. There is a parking lot close by and Jack tells you he will call a cab to pick you up and take you to the hospital. You nod and keep walking but your progress is labored. Ten awkward steps later Jack offers to carry you, assuring you it will be no problem before you even have a chance to protest. He could do it, you think, and probably not drop you in the process. He's tall, your head barely reaches his chin and you've always been slight. It would be easier but you only smile your thanks and shake your head. On the whole he's helped you enough already and you do have some pride.

"Is there someone I can call? Someone who can meet you at the hospital?"

"No. I have exactly one friend out here and he's at school. Medical school, actually." You smile to let Jack know you're not concerned. "I'll leave him a message."

Jack nods and you can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

When you finally reach the parking lot Jack settles you on the curb and makes sure you're comfortable before calling the taxi company. You wait and listen to him giving your location to the operator. As he talks he walks away from you, his head bent low and his left hand waving in the air as if the person on the other side of the line can see him. The conversation is short; within minutes you hear his shoes crunching on the gravel, announcing his return. He sits next to you, a respectful distance away, and rests his arms on his knees.

He glances at you, then his eyes flick to your leg. "How's the pain?"

"It's all right." You shrug your shoulders. It's the truth, more or less. The first, unrelenting waves of pain have receded, leaving only a dull, throbbing ache behind. There's not much swelling and you turn your head left and right, assessing the visible damage. No bruise darkens your skin yet but you know it will come. Vivid splotches of indigo and violet that will fade slowly to sickly yellows.

You turn to look at Jack. He has his elbows braced on his knees and is staring out across the parking lot. He looks just as good in profile as he does from the front, you think. Immediately you tell yourself to knock it off.

"I want to thank you again. You've been great."

"You're welcome." He smiles and nods and falls silent again. You wait, wondering if he is going to say anything else, but nothing comes. The silence isn't exactly uncomfortable but you're not used to people who use two words when twenty-five rambling ones will work just as well.

You pick at your fingernails.

"You don't have to stay, you know. I don't want to keep you." You hope he doesn't think you're ungrateful, hope he knows you just don't want to be a burden.

He shakes his head. "I don't have anywhere to be. Besides, the taxi shouldn't be too long."

You smile, pleased and grateful though you know it's ridiculous.

After that, you decide to pass what's left of the time making conversation. You talk about his new shoes, how you'll never run again, and the approaching holidays. Oddly, the taxi arrives before you want it to, the obnoxious blaze yellow very unwelcome. It heads directly for you and Jack is on his feet, helping you to yours. It's less awkward this time, one trial and error and you've both perfected your technique. You lean on Jack's shoulder for support and wait while the cab pulls up next to you. Jack opens the backseat passenger door, then bends at the knee to help you slide into the cab. You manage to bump your ankle only once before you settle in and stretch your leg across the seat.

"Are you all set?" Jack holds the door open with one hand, his head ducked so he can see you.

"Yes."

He nods once and shuts the door before walking to the driver's side. The driver rolls down his window and you see Jack thrust a handful of bills into the man's hand.

"This is for the fare, keep the change as tip."

"Hey." You pitch forward, half tempted to rip the money from the driver's hands and toss it out the window. "I can pay. You shouldn't do this."

Jack's eyes slide toward you. "You've got an emergency room bill to worry about. I'll take care of this."

"No."

"Too late."

You protest again but Jack ignores you. He talks to the driver again, tells him to take you to the St. Sebastian's emergency room, taps the top of the cab with his hand.

"And make sure you have someone get a wheelchair to roll her in, I think her ankle's broken."

"Jack."

Jack leans forward, just enough so you can see his face within the frame of the window. Outside it's started to rain and drops fall into the cab, splashing the taxi driver. He leans back, obviously wanting to close his window, but Jack doesn't move right away.

"Good luck with your ankle. I hope I'm wrong."

"I hope you are, too." You bite your lip. "And thank you. For everything."

"It was nice meeting you, Kate."

You open your mouth to return the sentiment but he's gone and the driver is already rolling up his window. You twist your body to look outside and see Jack backing away from the taxi. He gives you one last wave then turns and jogs back to the trail, his long-legged stride eating up the distance. He doesn't turn back again, you're not sure you think he would, but you watch anyway. You watch until the cab pulls onto the street, until the parking lot is stolen from sight by twisting roads and concrete barrier. Then you collapse against the hard plastic seat, press a hand across your eyes, shake your head, and sigh.

"Only you, Kate. Only you."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks to all those you reviewed the first chapter. I usually respond to every review individually, but the login/submission page gave me fits a while back and I kept getting error messages on my replies to reviews. To avoid spamming people I eventually decided to only reply once whether I got an error message or not, SO I want to apologize to anyone who didn't get a response for their feedback (or to anyone who might have gotten 2 or 3 responses while I was still valiantly trying to shove things through).

**Winding Roads – Chapter 2**

_**April 23rd, 2003**_

You see her looking at you, casting fleeing sideways glances in your direction as the two of you wait in line for your snack orders. She has tried to be discreet, hiding behind a curtain of dark, curling hair, so you pretend not to notice her stare. Even though you've done nothing but notice her for the last five minutes.

Something about her is scraping at the back of your brain, insisting you should recognize her from somewhere. So far, though, you haven't been able to catch a proper look at her face, forced to settle for too quick glances that reveal only one incomplete piece at a time. This little game between you has gone on for almost five minutes and you're half tempted to say something to her, maybe introduce yourself, but your desire to avoid a stilted conversation has so far kept you silent.

Your inner debate is still raging when the cashier is suddenly demanding your attention, distracting you with the jumbo pretzel and Sprite you ordered to nurse through the second half of the game. You take them with a small smile of thanks and move out of line, ready to return to your seat and relax instead of playing memory with a woman you probably don't know anyway. You're almost to the tunnel when you cast one more look over your shoulder, in a last attempt to stamp a past to the woman's face. But when your eyes find her through the crowd she has turned her back on you and the only thing you can see is the back of her head.

You resign yourself to live with the mystery and take a bite of your pretzel, not surprised to find it cold and under cooked. You're halfway up the ramp that leads back into the arena, the court just visible, when your steps drag to a halt and you turn around.

Out on the concourse, near the far wall, you spot a line of empty tables. There are no chairs and the tables are just large enough for a drink and maybe some nachos, but you don't particularly care about that.

Decision made, you retrace your steps and walk directly to the nearest open table. You brush some crumbs to the concrete floor, set your things down, and wait. All you want is one look you tell yourself, one full glimpse of her face just to see.

You shake your head and wonder why this is bothering you so much. It shouldn't matter whether you know this woman or not, whether you can place her or not. You don't consider yourself an overly curious person in general, but in this case it is definitely getting the better of you.

It isn't long before the woman gets her own order and turns back toward the concourse. Her eyes are downcast and a lock of long hair as fallen across her cheek but all doubt has been erased. You know her, that much is certain, but how you know her is a mystery.

You stare hard at her face and try to come up with something. She's too young to know from school so you think she might be a patient. You meet so many that sometimes their faces melt into one another, blending until you can't remember them specifically but only as a part of a whole. But that doesn't feel right, either. You feel your brow furrow in thought.

As you watch, you notice she is juggling two sodas and a cup of cheese fries as she makes her way to the condiment table. You step forward with some half formed notion to help when a man bumps against her shoulder and upsets her balance. He reacts quickly, stopping to offer an apology while one hand reaches out to catch her drinks should they slide from her grip. She manages to catch herself quickly and shares a laughing smile with the man.

The smile is what does it. It sparks your memory and ignites the burning ember of recognition into flame. She's the runner from the park, the young woman you found lying in a puddle, wet and dirty, cursing like a sailor.

Relief and a vague sense of excitement hit you. For months you thought of her every time you ran, especially when you passed the spot where you found her. You wondered about her often, if her ankle had been broken as you suspected or if, once healed, she'd started running again. For a time you actually watched for her, hoping to see her on the trail so you could ask how she was and what she'd been up to. But you never did see her and over time you forgot to look at all. Now you can hardly believe she's here, five feet away.

You start to approach her but hesitate. There are few things more awkward than trying to convince someone they're supposed to know you when all they can do is stare back at you with increasing confusion. You don't want to put either of you through that kind of scene, but your mind whispers that she was looking at you first.

You set your soda on the table and close the distance.

She's got her face turned down, stuffing napkins into the pockets of her jeans, oblivious to your approach. You wonder if you should clear your throat or if you should wait until she's done emptying the bin of napkins to make yourself known. She looks up and catches your gaze before you can decide.

She starts in surprise but you don't know if it's because you've surprised her or if she recognizes you as the man she was staring at in line. You step forward and offer her a friendly nod.

"Hi. Kate, right?" You smile and pretend to be unsure even though the memory of your meeting feels fresh again and you suddenly remember the whole thing perfectly.

In response her face goes blank, her jaw slackening a little. She schools her face into a polite smile almost immediately, but you can see a flush being to creep up her neck and she starts to fidget with the napkins in her hands

For a moment her face goes blank, but she recovers quickly, a hesitant smile crinkling her brow. You notice a flush begin to creep up her neck as she fidgets with the napkin in her hands and you realize that, despite her staring, she has no clue who you are. And as the uncomfortable silence stretches it hits you that she's not going to remember. Belatedly, you rush to re-introduce yourself.

"You don't remember me but I'm…"

Suddenly Kate's eyes go wide.

"Wait!" Her hands fly into the air and she holds them out as though she can physically stop your words. Your own name dies in your throat and you wait, amused by the enthusiasm suddenly radiating from her. The cornered look in her eyes is gone, replaced with excitement.

"You're the doctor. You paid for my cab." Her words spill forth in a rush, almost unintelligible because she doesn't seem to be able to get them out quickly enough. As if she thinks you'll interrupt her before she can prove herself. "You're...you're Jack."

Her look of triumph is comical and you chuckle softly, happy to be remembered.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans and nod. "That's me," you admit.

"Wow." Her eyes fix on yours and it's like she can't look away, like you're some supernatural apparition suddenly appeared before her. "This is unbelievable. I can't believe you remembered me. How are you?" She takes a step forward and for a second you think she is going to hug you and you step forward on instinct, but she only pats your arm.

"I'm great, thanks." you say, ignoring a pointless sense of disappointment. "What about you?"

"I can't complain."

Her smile widens and there's a fondness in her expression that is both surprising and gratifying. You feel an unexpected surge of pleasure at her reaction and your own smile stretches into a grin.

You nod meaningfully at her foot. "You're walking better than you were the last time I saw you." It's not witty but it fills the silence and keeps her talking.

"Yeah I am, aren't I? And you were right." She slides the foot in question forward and you both stare at it. "It was broken. I ended up on crutches and had to wear a walking boot."

You grimace in sympathy. "That's too bad."

"It actually wasn't that bad. The boot was this really bright turquoise and it got me a lot of attention. You'd be surprised how many people start conversations with you about that sorta thing."

As someone who works in a hospital, you know first hand how willing some people are to inquire about another's injuries and share the stories of their own, so you nod.

"I can imagine. Have you managed to steer clear of any more pot-holes?"

Kate's smile deeps and she looks up at you slyly.

"I've been steering clear of running. I ride a bike these days." She laughs at herself and leans forward like she's about to tell a secret. You lean toward her. "I should probably add that it's a stationary one."

You shake your head. "Well, at least that should keep you off crutches."

"That's definitely my number one priority these days."

The words feel like an ending, like the perfect place to say goodbye and go your separate ways without awkwardness or having lingered too long. If your first meeting was a book, it was one left unfinished, put down before you knew how everything turned out. But today the last sentence has been read and you can walk away, curiosity satisfied, the end. The thing is, you're not quite ready to close the book. You search your mind for some way to carry on the conversation.

Thankfully she does it for you.

"Is this your stuff?"

She moves past you and sets her food beside your pretzel and Sprite, safe on the round table where you've forgotten them. You catch up and move your things to one side to make room for hers.

"I owe you money," she says when she's settled.

The words are so abrupt and such a change of subject you don't follow her. Your confusion is plain and she has to remind you again of the cab you paid for. She has one hand in her pocket, presumably to pull out money, before you can assure her it doesn't matter.

The look on her face tells you it does.

"I pay my debts."

You shake your head. "I appreciate the thought, but it's not necessary. I wanted to help."

She doesn't listen to you and starts counting bills. The bills are crumpled and mostly singles, but she lays them flat on the table between you with deliberate care. You watch her count the money out loud, amazed she seems to remember how much the fare was, and you almost let her do it, just so she can gratify her pride. But you won't take her money because you refuse to be paid for doing the right thing for someone in need. You flatten a hand over the bills and slide them back in her direction.

"I can't take this."

"Yes, you can. I insist." She taps your hand lightly with the tips of her fingers.

"No." You shake your head. "I insist."

"You're really going to make me feel guilty about this forever?"

You laugh and it's on the tip of your tongue to tell her she can pay you back with coffee but you swallow the words before you can make a fool of yourself, unsure where the ridiculous thought even came from.

"I was being a Good Samaritan," you say instead. "We don't accept payment.

She sighs, continuing to look reluctant and stubborn but finally decides to let you win the argument.

"Fine," she sighs.

"So, you must be a pretty big Lakers fan." You point to the O'Neal jersey she's wearing to change the subject.

"You know it." She smiles and takes the bait. "My boyfriend is slightly obsessed so we're here a lot. What about you?"

For a split second her mention of a boyfriend throws you. But you're only off balance for a moment, not sure what brought on the surge of surprise in the first place.

"A friend of mine has season tickets and he asked me along." You shrug. "I'm actually more of a Clippers fan."

"The Clippers?" She reacts just how you expected. Her eyebrows raise and she looks at you like you just tried to convince her the sky is orange. One side of your mouth quirks as she takes a moment to digest the information and, with exaggerated care, crosses her arms over her chest. "Dodgers or Angels?"

It sounds like a challenge and you stare into her suspicious gaze. "Padres."

"The Padres? I don't believe it." She laughs and shakes her head, her eyes never leaving yours. The prolonged eye contact makes your stomach clench in a way you haven't felt in years, and you look down and clear your throat uncomfortably.

From the arena you hear the buzzer announce the end of half time. You glance at your watch, surprised how much time has passed. Around you people begin to answer the call, walking double-time to reach their seats before the start of the half. You look across the small table to Kate.

"I'd better get going." Her face is apologetic. "Tom will think I've been kidnapped."

"And he's probably hungry." You dip your chin toward her fries.

"That, too." Carefully she gathers her food, ready to attempt her precarious juggling act on the walk back to her seat.

"Do you need any help?" You know she'll turn you down but you ask anyway, because you hope you'll be proven wrong.

She smiles at you like she's not surprised you offered and shakes her head. "I'll manage," she assures you. "I'm actually better at all this then I look, I've had a lot of practice."

You'll have to take her word for it, but you have your doubts as you watch her cradle one soda against her chest and hold the other soda and fries in her hands. The one soda looks unstable but you don't say anything.

"It was nice to see you again."

Her eyes meet yours and the earnestness is back in her expression. "It was nice to see you, too. I'm glad you said something. I saw you in line earlier but couldn't place where I knew you from."

"Yeah, I could tell."

You smile again and notice color seep into her cheeks.

"I thought you might have noticed. I hope I didn't weird you out."

"No, it was fine. I was trying to figure out who you were, too." You could keep going but realize she's ready to leave and that if you don't say goodbye now you'll just keep thinking up reasons to make her stay. So you force yourself to smile firmly and nod. "Take care of yourself, Kate."

"You take care, too." She looks at you for another long moment and you start to think she isn't as eager to walk away as you believed, but then she's giving you a wave with her cheese fries hand and turning back toward the game.

You gather your own things and watch her go, waiting until she dissolves into the crowd, just to make sure she doesn't need help after all. She moves easily, never coming close to spilling, and as she disappears you think she was as pretty and kind as you remembered. The last thing you see is a wisp of her hair as she turns into the arena, and the last thing you think, before slowly making your way back to you own seat, is that you'll probably spend months thinking about her again.


End file.
